


You, In Your Memory

by docnoctem



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: (but i promise they're into it), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, alternate ''realistic'' phase zero where they split a 1B flat, cheeky bit of choking, some physical fighting, uk-specific homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docnoctem/pseuds/docnoctem
Summary: About self, shame, and spunk. A crass conversation between two people who probably shouldn’t shag, definitely did shag, inevitably will shag again.
Relationships: Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	You, In Your Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is such a minor thing that it really makes no difference, but just to clarify a few lines, the setting here is a slightly more "realistic" phase zero where the two characters live in a one-bedroom flat before the band has fully come together.

There’s a hole from his elbow in the wall. It’s shallow, oddly sharp and low, and he hasn’t yet had the chance to hide it behind the wardrobe. Funny thing is, the dip of it doesn’t really look unnatural in the yellowing, smoke-stained plaster; it’s not a _compliment_ , it’s just not a surprise.

Stu lets his cigarette ash on the floor as he stares at the dent. He sees this... movement, sort of, like a play in his head with phantom figures, and he tries to retrace the steps from the doorway to the wall to the bed. He sees the shove, and the grappling. He sees his elbow meeting the wall. He feels snarling, snapping anger, and the heat overflowing from his chest, and the blooming soreness from knuckle to fingertip.

He just can’t see the moment where it turns.

“What do we do now?”

His voice sounds more like himself than he expected. He’d sort of thought the tall shape of a man, the one who put the dent in his wall, might sound like someone else. He stubs the wasted cigarette into the boxspring before reluctantly looking at the other.

Murdoc cracks an eye open to look back at Stu.

“... _Now_ now? Why, your soaps on?”

“Yours are,” Stu says, unimpressed. “Isn’t Brookside at 8?”

“S’not the same since Barry left,” Murdoc mutters, stretching his feet straight out and cracking his ankles. “I don’t know, Stu, you’d have to fetch my planner. If you really think you can get it up again I’ll give you a handy, but short of that, thought I might lay a bit.”

Stu digs his nails into his palm. He eyes Murdoc’s pose, still frontdown on the mattress. His arms are crossed under his cheek, one eye peering out from his fringe and the other mashed shut. Hairy legs hang straight behind him, open enough to make Stu queasy. His gaze stops short of where the skin goes flush and slick.

“You don’t have to stay like that, you know,” he says.

Murdoc shoots him a sleazy grin and shifts his knees, lifting his arse up a bit; the wetted sheet beneath lifts with him.

“I’m stuck.”

Stu’s nose scrunches. “That’s disgusting.”

“Necessary evils. No need to roll around in it.” He sinks further down and smirks at the other’s frown, bottom lip catching on his forearm. “If I wanted spunk on my back I would’ve asked you to pull out.”

“You’re foul,” Stu says quietly, pushing his own bedsheet away from him. He can feel the migraine forming in the center of his skull.

“Harsh, Stuart. Sticks and stones...” Murdoc’s face creases with a shameless grin, eyeline dropping unsubtly to Stu’s uncovered groin, “as it were.”

He focuses his stare on the dent again, staying silent until he feels Murdoc’s eyes leave him. 

After a while, he hears the other flicking the lighter beside him. Stu knows his cigarettes are still on the nightstand, out of reach; he’s just _playing_ with it, like he’s _bored._

“So do you just… do you just do this?”

“What, shag? Or shag men?”

“You know what I mean.”

Murdoc doesn’t give him an inch. “I’d know if you’d say it. I can never tell if you’re calling me a tart or a puff.”

Stu wonders which’d be better.

“I don’t know.” His voice is so small in his throat. Murdoc sighs, tracing a finger around the other’s knee in faux-sympathy.

“Well I hate to break your heart Stu but no, you didn’t pop my arse cherry.”

Stu frowns harder at the wall and swats his hand away. He hears wet smacking as Murdoc rolls his tongue crudely over his teeth.

“Should be glad you didn’t.” He lifts up onto his elbows, head tilting to gesture at Stu’s crotch. “A girl needs practice first.”

“You’re not a girl.”

“Yeah, no shit, I assume that’s why you haven’t left me a fake number yet,” he sneers.

Stu’s eyes drift to their feet, his own sticking up absurdly tall where Murdoc’s lie flat. Following the line up their bare legs does nothing to soften the sense of dread pricking in him.

“What if my mum finds out?”

Murdoc makes a suggestive sound in the back of his throat. “Have you been reading my dream journal? When the twat’s away, Nurse Tusspot comes to play?”

He pretends he doesn’t hear him. “What do I say to her?”

Murdoc turns to press his forehead into the mattress. “What was your girlfriend’s name? The chatty one?”

“Lindsay.”

“And did you call mummy in the room after she let you slip it in her arse?”

“No! What the fuck, Murdoc?”

“Well then, I don’t see who’s going to tell her. Y’know it stings a bit, the number _I_ left after was genuine, but she still never rings.”

Stu roughly slaps an arm at him, the back of his hand grazing Murdoc’s backside. The other man hums with appreciation.

“Mmm, not yet, give me a few hours.”

“Shut up.”

“Pushy. S’pose if you can’t wait, you can have a wank on—”

“Stop fucking talking! Christ, Murdoc!” He wails. His mouth screws up like tangled wire, eyes glassy and threatening to spill. Murdoc draws his legs closed and scowls.

“I’m sorry, it seems like you’re the one drilling me about how you’re going to _cope_ with drilling me. I’d be happy to take a fucking nap.”

“Fine, just—just get out then!” Stu shouts, eyes and nose wet.

“You get out, go watch telly and calm down. I hear you’re just in time for Brookside.”

“It’s my bed! _My parents_ let me take it! We agreed I’d get the room, you agreed you’d sleep on the sofa, _you said_ you would. That’s your bloody bed.”

“I just got fucked up the arse Stu. I don’t fancy a walk, and I don’t fancy a sleep on the settee. I’m taking the bed.”

“It’s not yours.”

Murdoc’s smile curls with spite. “You didn’t mind sharing before.”

Stu sniffs loudly as he stands from the bed. He pulls a pair of dirty pants on and scrubs at his eyes and nose, then runs the wet fingers through his hair. Murdoc sighs and lifts himself from his own mess, flopping back onto the space Stu leaves. 

Stu drags his feet over to the wardrobe, shoulders trembling. He steadies an overlarge hand on either side of the furniture and grips, wooden legs scraping against the floor as he shifts the weight of it closer to the dent. Loose keyboard bits and picture frames clatter and fall along the top; it’s not until an open pill bottle tumbles to the floor and the blue-white tablets scatter that he finally stops.

"Stu, come on."

He stares at the photos of himself and his mates on the beach in Brighton. Shaun and Matt are both making lewd faces for the camera while Jon’s sporting that bloody Man U shirt and looking beyond pleased with himself. He stares at the one of Matt’s arm slung over his shoulder in their St. Wilfrid uniforms; one of Stu posed sheepishly outside Norm’s with his folks behind the camera; the team portrait with his football club. There’s a pit growing in his stomach, and all the heat in his chest goes away with it.

“We used to make fun of guys in school, when you heard stuff like that. You know, rumors’d get around that some bloke with a haircut was gay, so we’d whack a sign on his back that said, like... y’know, _I’m gay_ or somethin’. It was a big joke.”

“So you’ve always been this funny,” Murdoc deadpans. 

“Fuck off,” he says, kneejerk. His lip quivers and his frown sinks, one hand pressing against his mouth. “The fuck m’I supposed to say?”

“You know you don’t have to tell them. You don’t have to tell your mum. You’re being ridiculous, you’re crying about ringing half your phone book to tell them what your knob’s got into.”

“You’re such a prick,” he mutters, blinking rapidly.

“And you’re being a child. Grow up Stu, Jesus, I won’t pen any letters about it.”

Stu feels his shoulders tighten, the pinch behind his eyes blinding.

“It’s easy for you then, isn’t it? Who’s bloody asking, huh? Who’s expecting anything of you?”

“Oh, piss off. Tell me, what’s Rick the Brick from your little footsie team _expecting_ of you? 20 quid when he sells a polaroid of you pissing in his garden to The Sun?”

“No one’s called Rick. And you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then why don’t you make it crystal goddamned clear for me?”

“You’re lucky no one’s stupid enough to think anything of you,” Stu spits, bitter and red-faced. “That—that’s a freedom only a proper, proper twat gets. _Why not_ add taking it up the arse to the list, huh? What’s it matter? You’re already a—”

“Better consider how you finish that, nancy.”

Stu snarls. “A fuck up. Who’s there to disappoint? Huh? Who’s left writing you besides the courts? That's the difference between _where my knob's gone_ and yours. No one’s wondering where any of your bits end up.”

An unpleasant quiet settles over them. Stu’s face is scarlet and tear-strained where Murdoc’s in turn seems unflinching. Slowly, he spreads his legs, then pushes himself up. He makes a show of wincing at the strain on his spent body, pulls his knees under himself and plants his hands before him on the bed, his pose obscene.

To Stu's confusion and horror, Murdoc begins to crawl forward provocatively.

“You’re a nasty little cunt, aren’t you?” He asks, low and cruel, tongue wetting the side of his mouth. “A nasty cunt with a _big, fat cock_ only the lucky boys get to take.”

“Stop it. That’s not funny,” Stu hisses.

“No no, you’re right, I’ve been ungrateful. Charming cunt like you, you could’ve had any man you liked. Could’ve shagged Rick. Could’ve shagged your whole team.”

“I said _stop,_ ” he pleads.

“Couple more years making friends in the showers and you’d be wearing Beckham for a hand puppet, wouldn’t you? But you were generous enough to wrap this _fuck up_ around such a gift. It’s embarrassing that I’d have the nerve to talk back.” Murdoc brings a hand to his jaw, middle finger mushing into his lip to drag over his bottom teeth. “M'sure a nice, thick, _generous_ cunt has a trick for mouthy boys—”

_“Shut up!”_

Stu lunges for Murdoc. He’s not much of a fighter, never has been, but he’s got enough leverage standing to knock the other man back. Murdoc grips his forearms and pulls him close, Stu jerking to get free and failing. He brackets the smaller with his knees and struggles to reach for his neck.

Murdoc bares his teeth in his face, one hand shooting up to his shoulder to hold him back.

“Let muggins clean you up,” he purrs, more hyena than housecat, “promise I’ll wipe my chin and say _thank you, sir_. Goddamn charitable donation wasted on the carpet.”

Stu pries at his wrist, his massive, bony hand absolutely dwarfing it, but Murdoc only digs his nails in and grins something manic. The two grapple until Stu loosens his grip enough to get hold of his throat while Murdoc paws at his thin biceps. His eyes practically roll, fingers curling hotly around Stuart’s arms to hold him in place; all at once, Stu realizes himself and relents, an uncomfortable familiarity warming through his core. Murdoc seizes the opportunity, and with a great shove he flips the two over onto the other side of the mattress.

Immediately, Stu blanches. He yelps in shock and lets go, his long legs flailing recklessly as he scrambles to get up. Murdoc looks momentarily alarmed and ducks out of the way.

Stu stumbles from the bed, holding his hands out to either side in a comical fashion, looking absolutely horrified at the wetness on the small of his back.

“Jesus, fuck! I’ve got your cold fucking splooge on me!”

A dam breaks and Murdoc howls with laughter, cheeks as red as Stu’s ever seen, nearly coming to tears as he buries his face in his hand.

“It’s not fucking funny!” Stu shrieks, “It’s rank, you’re fucking rank! Get it off me!”

“Then get back over here, you tit.”

With an undignified whine, Stu obliges. Murdoc balls a clean edge of the bedsheet in one hand and, still thrumming with obvious joy, wipes the smudge of spunk from his back.

A moment later he feels Murdoc begin to smooth a hand up his spine to the flat plane of his shoulder, but Stu stands abruptly and moves to his wardrobe; his crass, muffled glee fades to silence again.

Stu rummages out a pair of grey joggers and a t-shirt and tugs them on. He doesn’t really look at what’s printed over the breast, only cares that it’s too old, too worn, stained under the collar and threadbare through the sleeves.

Standing back half a step, Stu studies the damage to the wall again. He peels a magazine foldout of Elastica down and sticks it over the dent instead.

Absently, he toes at a discarded shirt on the floor. He stoops to grab it and passes it to Murdoc.

“That one’s yours,” he observes.

“I don’t care, keep it. I’m not talking to you with your knob out.”

Murdoc rolls his eyes and pulls it on, then impishly lifts his arms in a stretch, his flaccid cock peeking out beneath the hem. Stu kicks the edge of the mattress and Murdoc slumps back down, lips still pursed with mischief.

Stu takes a seat beside him, shoulders sloping.

“So we… we still do the band?” He winces after he asks, sounding like a child even to his own ears.

“‘Course we still do the band, are you daft? We’re not bloody Wham, the paps won’t be asking who’s spaffed on your back.” Stuart’s glare only broadens Murdoc’s grin. “Which part didn’t you like, the Wham or the spaffing?”

“From you, none of it.”

Murdoc looks bemused, but something hungry sits behind it; something that Stu can feel prodding, squirming, heavy inside him in the very worst way.

“What would you like from me then?”

He hates the way his words stall on his tongue. He hates the way Murdoc’s eyes feel on his chest, yearning and greedy and reverent. He hates that he could get hard again.

What he likes is the feel of this old shirt on his skin; same as it’s felt a hundred times before.

With his chin pulled down to his collarbone and mouth miserably sunken, Stu manages a pitiful “I wouldn’t.”

Murdoc pinches the bridge of his nose, then runs his thumb and forefinger outward to his temples, briefly parting his fringe with it. It flops right back into place.

“Fuck’s sake Stu, enough with the waterworks. That’s done. Here’s what’s on offer, right? You pick. Plan one: we make the album, we get the cheque, you shag more women than you can count—mm, y’know what, nine’s a bit modest. More than I can count. Plan two: s’all the same shite, but... I suck your cock.” He says with a shrug of his shoulder, so candid, so cavalier. “Y’could have a worse deal. But you jus’ want one, fine, no skin off, alright?”

“...alright,” Stu echoes, croaky and quiet.

“Alright. Now can we agree no one needs mummy’s permission and cut the bloody wobbly?”

“I guess.” Stu lets out a shallow breath, traces the backs of his teeth, curls and uncurls his fingers. He does his best to resist looking to the poster again. “...I guess I’m just tired.”

Stu prays he’ll take mercy and leave him his bed; pointedly, Murdoc reclines into the soiled sheets.

“Perfectly good settee down the hall,” he says with a thumbing gesture, “unless you fancied a cuddle.”

Stu shoots him a disinterested look and stands. Murdoc gives a little chuckle as he walks through the door.

“Gimme a shout if they start lezzing out again on Brookside,” Murdoc calls after him. “Or if you change your mind about the handy.”

Stu slows and rests a shoulder against the wall. He looks out at his old sofa and telly, familiar and fine. He looks at nothing new ahead of him.

After a beat, he calls back “If you can walk.”

He swallows down a sickness at Murdoc’s pleased, purring laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thanks for being patient with me if you're still here! I know this isn't much to come back from such a long stint away with. I will really try to get a longer, less sploogy thing up soon.
> 
> As always, say hi if you like at tothedarkdarkseas.tumblr.com!


End file.
